


Honey, You’ll Survive

by HotCrossPigeon



Series: Hurt!Aziraphale Stories [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angelic Healing, Angst and Humor, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Collects Various Tea Paraphenalia, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Whump (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bickering, Blood and Injury, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Cuddling, Don’t Mess With The Bentley, First Kiss, Fluff, Frankly Quite Terrible First Aid, Happy Ending, Humour, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Old Married Couple, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-10-29 04:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20790638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HotCrossPigeon/pseuds/HotCrossPigeon
Summary: Crowley only popped into the bookshop to say goodbye.He might not have been thinking straight, due to that bloody great big hole where his stomach used to be.Aziraphale, quite rightly, refuses to let the demon pop his clogs in his bookshop of all places, thank you very much.





	1. In which Crowley fucks up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t get them out of my head. I have five stories on the go at once. Somebody help.  
This is both Hurt!Crowley and Hurt!Aziraphale, but I’m still counting it in the Hurt!Aziraphale series, of which there will be many, many more stories to come... so, keep your eyes peeled... tehe.  
Also, it occurred to me that some readers might be a tad confused by the use of a flannel, because I think it means clothing of some sort elsewhere in the world? But, it just means a washcloth or a little face towel here in the UK :)  
Enjoy!  


Crowley was fucked.

Oh he was so utterly, fuckingly _fucked_.

He slammed his head repeatedly onto the Bentley’s steering wheel. His nose hit the horn and he left it squashed there when his skull got too heavy to lift back up for another round.

The sound of it droned obnoxiously out into the London night, that was, until the Bentley itself had had enough of it. The sudden deafening blast of _Keep Yourself Alive_ from the radio caused the demon to lurch upright, and then before he even knew it, he had quite unexpectedly and unceremoniously been dumped outside the angel’s bookshop. 

Literally, the Bentley had started up her own engine, lurched through the dimly lit streets, paying no attention whatsoever to pedestrians or traffic lights, or even roads themselves, let alone the laws of physics, then had screeched to a halt, flung open the driver’s side door and tipped the demon out onto the curb in the middle of Soho.

The door slammed shut behind him and then locked itself.

Crowley couldn’t say that he didn’t deserve it, but that didn’t mean he was going to like it.

So here the demon now lay, in a puddle of sporadically twitching limbs, that had seemingly forgotten they weren’t currently a snake. It might have been a tantrum. The Bentley was, quite obnoxiously, ignoring him.

Crowley realigned his bones into their proper configurations, and pondered the merits of just dying out here on the street, before the Bentley honked at him again, right into his left ear.

Then proceeded to continue honking at him and flashing her lights.

Repeatedly.

Crowley groaned aloud, levered himself upright, and leant against her roof for a long moment. He rubbed her affectionately on the hood until she quietened down. His hand left a smear of dark blood on the paintwork, which, had this been any other day, would have sent him into a fit of rage at whoever would dare dirty the exquisite beauty of his beloved car. But as it was, he thought it rather fitting, actually.

He’d just spent the last few minutes trying to knock himself unconscious with the help of her steering wheel, after all.

You see, Crowley had had the stupid thought that if he had to go, if he really had to shuffle himself off this immortal coil once and for all, then it was obvious that he and his beloved Bentley would go together.

She was an extension of him, really, an all body glove, he’d once thought, and he’d be damned (again) if he let anyone else get their grubby mitts on her. Besides, she’d probably fall apart if he wasn’t around, because she’d never once been serviced, or repaired, or even had any petrol put in her from the day he’d bought her, hot off the line, brand new and sparkling and so god damn beautiful.

No, they were one and the same. They’d go together, and furthermore, they’d do it with _style_.

In other words, Crowley had wanted to go for one last joyride through central London, then out, further out, right into the countryside, under the cover of night, the sky above them filled with a litany of stars, darkened hedgerows whizzing past like green blurs, until she really flew, and he flew with her - it would have been bloody romantic. A fitting bloody end, all right? Only the Bentley had gone and ruined it all because she hadn’t bloody let him.

He’d been a bit annoyed at that. Pissed off, actually. Hence the slamming of his own head into her steering wheel.

She was, after all, supposed to be on his side. They’d been through the Apocalypse together, and he hadn’t let her burn - well, he’d prevented it for as long as possible, but she’d had a good innings, and it didn’t matter anyway because she hadn’t really burned, it hadn’t even happened.

Or it had, but then it hadn’t.

Events after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t were weird...

Anyway, point _was_, she was his bloody car and she should do _what she was told_.

Thing was... he was pretty sure he was fucked. He’d had a bit of a fight with some old friends, and he hadn’t lost, of course, naturally, in fact a few of them were now nothing more than steaming puddles of demonic goo... but he hadn’t exactly won either.

He was pretty sure he was dying, no, he was positive he was dying. 

The Bentley had, in not so many words, and being a vehicle only capable of communicating through an extensive repertoire of Queen songs, informed Crowley that he was an idiot. And instead of allowing him to wrap them both around a lamppost in some fit of aforementioned idiocy, she’d driven him here. To his angel.

All right, so maybe her idea was better than his.

Crowley had thought of Aziraphale, of course he had. He just hadn’t wanted the angel to see him like this, because it was bound to upset him, and maybe if Crowley just up and disappeared without a word then Aziraphale could pretend he was still out there somewhere, maybe the angel would think of him fondly over a glass of wine, and wonder if the demon had finally buggered off to Alpha Centauri, to keep bees, or get a bloody terrarium, or something equally harmless.

The bookshop loomed, ominously.

Oh well, he was here now.

Might as well say goodbye.

He clutched a hand over his stomach, and then did his best to saunter his way up to the angel’s front door for the last time.

It opened before he could even reach for the handle, as if it too, had something against him. It occurred to Crowley then, that maybe after so much celestial interference, both the Bentley and the Bookshop had become a bit more sentient than either angel or demon gave them credit for.

Probably best not to think about it too much.

Anyway, there was the angel, pottering about inside, without a care in the world.

On second thoughts, maybe Crowley should just go back and sit in the Bentley. He could take her honking at him, probably wouldn’t be long now anyway. He didn’t really fancy disturbing the soft, gentle, homely quiet of the angel’s bookshop. Look, there he went now, just fannying around the place, slotting books neatly into their spots on their respective bookshelves, and smoothing over their covers with careful hands. He hadn’t noticed the tinkle of the bell above the door, probably been too absorbed in his own musings. Perhaps he was thinking of where to have a late supper.

This would spoil his evening, wouldn’t it. And Crowley would make a mess. Blood everywhere. Very inconsiderate. Aziraphale would only make a fuss about it.

Yeah, he should leave. He was leaving. Any second now.

Besides, the angel probably already had plans with a cup of hot cocoa and that copy of sonnets he’d been harping on about the other day. And yeah, all right, Crowley was a demon, but he wasn’t about to - ah _shit_, too late anyway, fuck, _bollocks_, he’d been spotted.

“‘Lo, angel,” he said, opting for cool. Because he was, all the time. Shut up.

Aziraphale brightened immediately, like a big old lamp with a dusty old shade on it. He looked unspeakably glad to see the demon, he always did, for some reason, though Crowley had no idea why. The angel’s lips were pressed together in a fond smile, blue eyes dancing and crinkling at the edges like a well worn blanket.

“Crowley, oh my dear, what a _lovely_ surprise -”

Crowley caught the very moment that the angel’s face dropped.

He knew this had been a bad idea, it was all the Bentley’s fault.

A startled gasp escaped Aziraphale, and the book he had been holding suddenly flopped onto the floor in his shock. That’s right. There was a book currently lying face down on the floor of the bookshop, pages all bent, spine in the air, and the angel wasn’t even paying it any attention.

He was looking at Crowley instead, and his eyes were bright and concerned and, oh _Hell_, a little bit weepy.

Yep, Crowley had really gone and royally fucked this up now, hadn’t he?

“What the _buggering hell _happened to you?!”

Oh, and the angel was swearing now too, that was - well, that was probably a bad reaction, wasn’t it? But it was also good, because just look at those pink lips and those naughty words coming out of them, what a treat. Well, maybe not naughty, it was only sort of naughty, hardly the granddaddy of swear words, was it, really, bugger? And it was one the angel had said before, but only when very very drunk.

Crowley would take it anyway. He’d count it as a win, one to go on the tally of the angel being startled into swearing by the sight of him, which happened more often than you’d think.

And, while it wasn’t a vile swearword, it was still hopelessly endearing to see the angel form his mouth around it with such vigour. Hell, if Crowley had known this was all it took to get the angel to swear, he’d have gotten himself stabbed before.

Maybe.

Yeah, he probably would have actually. This might be the best day of his life. He’d see how many filthy words he could squeeze out of his angel before he kicked the bucket.

Worth it.

“Oh, oh! Good gracious, Crowley! You’re bleeding! Whatever have you done to yourself now?!”

Oh wait, the angel looked kind of sad actually, panicked, fretting. His hands were wringing themselves, which he only ever did when particularly worried about something. That definitely wasn’t good. Right. Best try and calm the angel down a bit before he worked himself up into a tizzy.

“I’m dying!” Crowley blurted out, and _whoops_, probably not the best thing to open with.

But strangely that did have the desired effect after all, and it got the angel to stop looking quite so lost, it even caused him to roll his eyes in exasperation.

“Now _really_ Crowley, you’ll do no such thing! Especially not inside my bookshop, I simply won’t allow it.”

“Oh, I’m _sorry_,” Crowley sneered, “Didn’t mean to be an _inconvenience_!” He turned around a bit and gestured vaguely to the door with a bloody hand, “I’ll just go and peg it outside in the cold, then, shall I?”

“Certainly not. Oh, you had better come inside properly, before you catch your death. How on _earth_ did you land yourself into this mess? Come here, now, that’s it, sit down before you fall down, and oh - mind the first editions! It won’t do to get your blood all over them.”

Ah, there was the angel he knew.

Crowley stumbled to the angel’s well worn sofa and plonked himself down in his usual spot.

“Am dying though,” he said, because he was, actually, he could feel it.

“Don’t be so melodramatic, dear,” was Aziraphale’s trim response. “Let me have a look at you.”

It was bad, Crowley could tell. The angel had paled at the sight of the wound, and his hands were trembling a little as they moved aside the tatters of his ruined shirt. It was probably that big fucking hole that did it.

The angel’s voice, however, was sure and steady as he remarked almost casually, “Nothing to worry about my dear,” and gently loosened his bow tie. “I’ll have you fixed up in a jiffy.”

“Angel...” said Crowley, gently, because they both knew full well that there was nothing that could be done. “Don't say jiffy, no one says jiffy, what does that even mean?”

“It means I’ll have you feeling better in no time at all,” said Aziraphale, not rising to the bait, “Just relax. Here,” he drew a blanket around Crowley’s shoulders, “I’ll make us some tea.”

Of all the _stupid_ -

“Oh yeah, oh right, tea, _yes_, that’ll bloody do it! I feel better already,” spat Crowley, the pain making his sarcasm a little more biting than usual.

Aziraphale took it easily, lifting his chin and glaring, “Now don’t get snappish with me, you’re the one who barrelled in here looking for sympathy.”

“Angel, for fuck’s sake, there’s a fucking _hole_ in my belly, a literal, _gaping hole_, what - where do you think the tea’s gonna even go?”

“I’m sure you’ll manage. Besides, I didn’t say it was just for you, did I? I rather think I need something to steady my nerves. Now stop making a fuss, I shan’t be a tic.”

And the angel got up and left Crowley on the sofa, by himself, bleeding everywhere. Oh, he really was a bastard sometimes.

Aziraphale returned some five minutes later, with a tray of miscellaneous tea related things, a small roll of bandages, and a bowl of warm water with a flannel floating in it.

It was quite the most pathetic excuse for a first aid kit the demon had ever seen, and he had been in Hell, where their version of medical advice consisted of a good old dunk in the sulphur pit until the infection and/or parasite you might have accumulated was burned clean out of your corporation, along with most of your skin and vital organs.

“D’you know,” groused Crowley, “I have literally no idea why I thought you’d be able to help. At all.” He gestured huffily at the tray as Aziraphale gently placed it down gently on the coffee table. “What’s _that_ s’posed to be?”

Aziraphale straightened, and fixed him with a dry look. “Tea,” he said, lightly, pouring himself a cup from a fat bellied teapot complete with knitted cosy.

“Not _that_, I can see _that_,” Crowley whined, gesticulating at the other crap the angel had deigned to bring in with him, “_that_. What’s _that_.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Those are bandages, clearly,” he muttered, and sipped daintily at his cup.

“Angel,” said the demon, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s a _great big fucking hole_ -”

The angel slammed his cup down onto the table, and tea sloshed up over the rim.

“Yes, so you keep saying! However, I have yet to see you do anything to rectify the situation yourself! Besides grumble about it, of course, oh _yes_, you’ve proven yourself extremely adept at that. So, my dear boy, forgive me, but you’ll simply have to put up with it. I do happen to know what I’m doing, in fact I know _perfectly well_ what I am doing, and I’ll thank you to just sit there and let me _do it_.”

Crowley folded his arms, and instantly regretted it when it pulled on his wound. He wheezed, “Oh really? Patched up many demons, have you?”

“Just the one, though he is the most _ungrateful_ creature I have ever met. Really, quite abysmal. If I were pressed I might call him _completely infuriating_, actually.”

Crowley grumbled and slouched back into the sofa cushions, drawing his blanket around him tightly.

“Can’t we have some wine, at least? Or whisky? Brandy? Something to take the edge off, come on, angel. Don’t hold out on me. I know you’ve got the good stuff tucked around here somewhere.”

Aziraphale eyed him with a small frown, “No, no, I’m afraid that’s quite out of the question, I shall need to have my wits about me.”

“I meant for _me_, angel.”

“Well, I don’t think that’s wise, do you? After all, you do have a rather nasty wound.”

“All the more reason to get completely sloshed.”

The angel didn’t seem to think so, and Crowley wondered if he had enough energy to just demonically miracle some overproof alcohol directly into his veins. Because sod the angel, he was in pain. Agony, actually. And getting stupendously wankered on any kind of booze, sounded like the best idea he’d ever had.

“If these really are to be our final moments together, my dear Crowley,” retorted the angel, primly, “I should like to have you with me, cognitively intact.”

“Ohhhh, you’re pulling that card are you? That’s _low_, angel.”

“You may very well think so, but those are my feelings on the matter. I shan’t be swayed. And since you are currently residing inside my bookshop, you’ll have to abide by my rules.”

Aziraphale procured a garibaldi from a battered biscuit tin that was sat on the tea tray, and dunked it into his cup.

Crowley watched him eat it, feeling very sorry for himself indeed. “Where’s _my_ tea, then?” He bemoaned.

Aziraphale helped himself to another biscuit. “I’m dreadfully sorry, I was under the distinct impression that you didn’t want any, in fact you _clearly expressed_ that you didn’t want any.”

“Well,” sniffed the demon, “might as well, now you’ve made a whole bloody pot for yourself. And you won’t _allow_ me anything stronger.”

Aziraphale dutifully poured him a cup and set it next to him on the coffee table, and then immediately picked it up again with a small noise of dismay, “Oh, I haven’t laid out a coaster for you.”

“I don’t need a bloody coaster.”

“You’ll mark the poor table.”

“Angel, I’m dying, literally dying, and you care more about bloody tea rings on your ancient pockmarked coffee table?”

The angel blinked at him, looking distraught.

Crowley pondered the merits of using the last of his demonic energy to snap his fingers and deposit himself into the center of the sun, because that would surely be a less painful way to go than this. “Oh for the love of - _fine_! I’ll use a bloody coaster!”

“I haven’t laid one out for you,” said Aziraphale again, looking increasingly fretful.

“Just miracle one up, then!”

“It’s not the _same, _Crowley!” insisted the angel, “Besides, I already own a marvellous set depicting little coastal seaside towns of Wales, and they’re really very quaint, now, let’s see, where did I put them?” He began rifling through a large stack of tat on one of the nearby shelves, with great aplomb, “Aha, _here_ we are! Now, would you prefer Tenby, or oh, this is a lovely one, somewhere in the Gower Peninsula I believe.” 

He looked up brightly, holding each coaster up for the demon to see, as if actually expecting Crowley to actually give him an answer.

“... Angel, are you serious? Have I already discorporated and this is, in fact, Hell? I know - why don’t you just kill me now with those bloody coasters, just - just shove them up my nose and _suffocate_ me with the bloody things and be done with it! Put me out of my misery!”

The angel selected a coaster for him, and placed it neatly on the table, then he picked up Crowley’s cup from the tray and set it atop said coaster, with a pleased smile, “Ah, there we are, now, isn’t that better?”

“I don’t even _want_ any bloody tea now!” the demon grumbled. He had half a mind to set fire to it, and the bloody coaster, just to see the angel pout at him.

Once Aziraphale had finished his cup of tea, he started ominously faffing about with the wet flannel in the bowl.

Crowley eyed him, warily. “What’re you planning on doing with that?”

The angel came forward, with the soggy flannel in hand. Crowley had not felt true fear like this for some time, and he’d just been stabbed through the stomach by a gaggle of leering demons, so that was really saying something.

“No,” he hissed, shrinking back against the sofa cushions like a scorned cat, “No, angel! Go away.”

“I have to clean out the wound Crowley, don’t be so childish. Now, hold still.”

“No no, no - _aarrrgggggggggrrrrrrrrfffffffuuuuuuuck_! Angel! Ow! That _hurts_!”

“Well of _course_ it hurts, it’s a -”

“Bloody great big hole that you’re poking at with a flannel?!”

“Precisely. Now do stop moving about the place, this requires a delicate touch.”

“Angel, agh, this isn’t helpi- oh sssshit, _shit_, stop! STOP! That is NOT a _delicate touch_!”

“It would be, if only you’d stop your incessant flinching.”

“Hard not to flinch when you’re - just flopping - it around - in there - ah - _ahhh_ \- ANGEL!”

“Oh now, _really_, you’re making quite the fuss!”

The pain was like a living, squirming, white hot creature in his belly. Crowley’s teeth clenched together so hard that he could feel them crack.

And then it ebbed, slowly. And the demon felt himself slumping, down, down...

Oh, but that was... probably bad, wasn’t it... He was starting to feel oddly detached... everything was kinda bleary, and - and dizzy, and he just knew that couldn't be a good sign... and if the blessed angel could just stop for one fucking minute, just stop, then Crowley might be able to... to...

“Ohhhhhh... oh, ssssss’not good...”

He might have zoned out for a few moments. Only a few moments. Awareness fizzling out like static on the Bentley’s radio, until there was nothing left but soft white noise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think of my silly little story! :) comments and kudos are so greatly appreciated!


	2. In which Aziraphale does something stupid

Aziraphale did not panic.

He was an angel, and angels, assuredly, did not panic. It was very unbecoming of an angel to panic. And therefore, he wasn’t panicking.

At least, not outwardly.

He had managed to make it seem as though he were quite calm about this whole awful unfolding situation, while Crowley had been scrutinising him with pained yellow eyes, and hissing at every touch, with barbs on his tongue and venom behind his clenched teeth.

It had filled Aziraphale with hope, seeing the demon’s familiar ire. The angel had easily fallen back on their old habit of teasing and feigning annoyance, but beneath it all he desperately hoped that perhaps Crowley was strong enough to get through this by himself, perhaps he could claw his own way out, as he usually did, because honestly, the demon was truly terrible at accepting any sort of help.

Aziraphale was surprised that Crowley had turned up at his bookshop at all in such a state. He could be extremely stubborn about this sort of thing.

But now, the demon had run out of steam, and had all but collapsed on the sofa. Long limbs flopping over the edge as if in sleep, but breath wheezing out of him in a most horrific manner. It was only then that Aziraphale had allowed himself to feel slightly less angelic than was proper, he had allowed himself, just a little, to panic.

Crowley let out a breathy, agonised, honest to goodness whimper, and it set Aziraphale’s heart alight to hear it, it caused something hot and prickly to well up involuntarily in his blue eyes.

Oh. This was awful, really, quite intolerable.

He had never heard Crowley sound quite like this before. The demon was much more inclined to hiss and spit and growl and swear bloody murder, whenever he was in pain. Aziraphale had seen him hide behind his vitriol on several hundreds of occasions, and was quite used to being insulted by an overly dramatic demon who harboured little more than the demonic equivalent of a papercut, or a particularly stubborn hangover.

The demon loved to milk any small injury or upset, because he enjoyed the challenge of trying to get Aziraphale to wait on him hand and foot. He loved basking gleefully in the angel’s comfort, yes, Aziraphale was well aware of that, and even indulged him on occasion when he was at his weakest. Crowley could be quite insufferable. But this was different. Aziraphale had never, ever, heard the demon sound so very pained and vulnerable before, never in six thousand years, and it just - it wasn’t right. It wasn’t right.

And he needed to make it right.

Crowley looked to be barely clinging to consciousness, if the fluttering of his serpentine eyes was anything to go by. The demon was sprawled haphazardly on the angel’s sofa cushions, and had attempted to curl in on himself, like the snake that he sometimes was, to protect his soft, injured underbelly which - oh, good gracious - oh, he could barely stand it -

Aziraphale had been staring at the wound for the past half an hour, and he still hadn’t come to terms with the terrible damage, with the awful - with the - oh, Lord, how did this even _happen_? Why hadn't Crowley moved out of the way in time to avoid such a thing? He always managed to before, at the very last minute of course, because he always had to be so very dramatic about things, pretending he was suave and _hip_, and well, it was bound to catch up to him at some point. There were only so many times you could stick two fingers up at fate, Aziraphale supposed, and it was just bloody typical of the demon, wasn’t it, to come here and try to die in Aziraphale’s bookshop. Well, Aziraphale wouldn’t allow it. No, the demon had really put him out this time. 

The angel took a steadying breath and carefully washed his hands in the water bowl that sat, unassuming, on the coffee table next to the cooling teapot. As the blood was slowly washed away, the angel noticed that there was something dark and staining that had clung fast to his trembling fingers.

Something unmistakably Crowley.

_Oh, my dear,_ thought Aziraphale, as anguish painted the lines of his face in dark shadowed brushstrokes, _oh Crowley._

Aziraphale had known that the wound was serious, but he had still hoped that it would only result in the demon suffering an inconvenient discorporation. The mere presence of this shimmering dark essence, mixed in with the demon’s red blood like the rainbow slick of oil on a puddle, filled the angel with unimaginable dread.

He lay his hand upturned in the water bowl and watched as the demon’s essence - a part of Crowley’s very being, a tiny piece of his demonic, occult self - wound playfully around the angel’s fingers, like an inquisitive fish.

It was as if the dark essence was afraid to let him go, as if it were drawn to the angel’s light now that it had been parted from its host. It lazily coiled itself around the skin of his palm like the tiniest snake, a mere curling wisp of black ink. Aziraphale tried to clutch at it, gripped by a sudden desperation to hold it in his hands, as if in doing so he could somehow make it stay, somehow give it back to Crowley. But he only served to muddy the water, and the delicate, dark essence gradually dissipated into it as if it had never been there at all.

The angel felt its loss keenly.

He dried his hands on a tea towel that had been folded neatly on the tea tray and then sat there for a few minutes, clutching at the cloth with his eyes tightly closed and his breath catching in his throat.

Oh, how he wanted to tell the demon things, so many silly, ridiculous things, but he didn’t allow himself a single word.If he spoke them aloud now, if he uttered them to the ailing demon, he was sure that he would be admitting that this was the last time that Crowley would be able to hear him. And that couldn’t be so.

Aziraphale knelt at the demon’s side once more. He hovered a gentle hand over the wound, and quietly despaired.

The angel admitted that he was scared. Good Lord, he was terrified. That such a thing could take the demon from him, after everything they’d been through.

The wound had to have been inflicted with something cursed, something vile, something hateful and demonic, because despite Aziraphale’s best intentions, his tentative attempts at soft angelic healing, his gentle cajoling and nudging of torn flesh and ruined skin, his efforts at easing the sharp biting pain that flirted like a shadow over Crowley’s pale face - it wasn’t working. None of it was working.

The angel wrung his hands, the poor tea towel knotting and fraying beneath his anxious fingers, as he choked back a single sob. _Oh, hush. Hush. Stop this impertinent blubbering right this instant, you old fool._ He quickly wiped his face free of any rebellious tears before Crowley could catch a glimpse of them, because it really wouldn’t do for the demon to see him like this. He would only become upset. He would only worry. Aziraphale would only cause him yet more pain on top of everything else, and he would never forgive himself for that.

Crowley had need of him. Crowley needed him. And so, Aziraphale would keep himself together, and he would think of something, because the alternative just didn’t bare thinking about.

It simply wouldn’t do to lose himself to such silly thoughts. He was being quite ridiculous.

No, no, he would need to be strong enough for the both of them this time.

Aziraphale, Principality of Heaven, Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, had never really been very strong, at least, not in the ways that Heaven thought mattered. The other angels put stock in discipline, in righteousness, in order and obedience. In heavenly weapons that should be valiantly wielded in battle, to turn the tide on their wily demonic foes.

But Aziraphale had always appreciated softness in place of discipline, and empathy over righteousness, and Crowley’s special brand of chaos over any semblance of order, even when said chaos caused a frightful mess. And above all, Aziraphale valued free will, because with it the humans had done the most marvellous things. And while he did not necessarily enjoy disobeying orders, he did see the virtue in hiding the truth when it mattered, and making allowances for certain things, and... well, ah, hmm... actually, now that he thought about it, he rather liked disobeying orders actually. He really was quite the disobedient angel, if he put his mind to it.

And when gifted a flaming sword by the Almighty herself, he had had absolutely no intention of using it, thank you very much, and had given it away moments later in a fit of compassion. He’d been shown his adversary and had thought, _Oh my, what a beguiling creature, would it be so very terrible for us to be civil to one another?_

This often led the other angels to believe that the poor wayward Principality was surely a very weak and hapless being. Perhaps he should be pitied, or even scorned, but he was definitely nothing to worry about.

But they were wrong.

Aziraphale had a different sort of strength within him. He was loving. He was impossibly kind. And he was clever. Oh, so clever. And he was, most definitely, and most importantly, just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing.

Aziraphale was very good at hiding these last two things, it did well to be thought of as a fool, it meant that he was usually underestimated. For example, if Crowley had had the slightest inkling of what the angel was prepared to do, then he would surely have legged it in the other direction as fast as his lanky legs could carry him. So Aziraphale had pretended not to have any intention of doing anything untoward, had bustled obnoxiously about with flannels and bandages, and all the while he had been thinking and thinking and thinking his dangerous thoughts.

The demon had sneered at his tea making, but Aziraphale knew that he needed to calm himself for what he was about to do. The tea helped to soothe his nerves, the biscuits comforted his soul, and the bickering about tea coasters of all things had ignited something within the angel - something warm and fiery that belonged to Crowley alone, that only Crowley could stoke within him - that he sorely, desperately, needed if this was ever going to work.

Because this was Crowley. Dear, sweet, kind, antagonistic, whining, hopelessly dramatic, endlessly endearing, glorious, impossible Crowley.

And Aziraphale had to do something.

* * *

The world flecked back into view, like oil paint from the tip of a paintbrush, fleck, fleck, fleck, on the canvas, in tiny, faraway sensations.

A gentle dabbing at his brow.

Fingers combing through his hair.

That was nice.

What a bastard, though. Oh, Crowley had almost forgotten just what an absolute bastard Aziraphale could be.

“Angel,” he murmured, once enough of him had collected back together to form a cohesive thought, “do something for me?”

There was a hum, and then more pain around his stomach and a horrible, stinging pressure. Crowley’s ears popped unpleasantly. “I rather thought I already was,” came the soft reply.

Crowley opened his eyes into two golden horizontal slits, and observed the angel. Aziraphale was slightly pink around the eyes but he didn’t appear worried. His forehead was free from any of those overly concerned wrinkles, and his hands were steady, his movements methodical.

Crowley calmed.

Aziraphale wasn’t worried, that was good. Crowley would hate to worry him. Let the angel do what he wanted, whatever he wanted, whatever made him feel like he was helping. It wouldn’t save Crowley, of course, but it didn’t look like Aziraphale knew that. So the demon would at least let the angel have this, let the angel take care of him while he still could. Let the angel make him comfortable.

But not too comfortable. Because Crowley was still a demon, after all. And he’d be damned if he didn’t get a rise out of the angel one last time. He’d miss their incessant arguing when he finally corked it, so he might as well make the most of it now.

“I mean,” gasped the demon, “something else. Something other than this fucking torture.”

That earned him an eye roll. Oh, he was glad to see it. It was like fucking ambrosia.

“Well,” said the angel, pragmatically, “that really depends on what it is that you would like me to do.”

Crowley had a list of things he would like the angel to do. It was almost as long as the list of things he wanted to do, to his angel. Most of it was stuff that he wouldn’t dare actually tell Aziraphale, because he didn’t fancy being smote and/or chucked out of the bookshop on his arse. But he could settle on one thing. It was harmless.

Crowley told him. The angel didn’t like it.

“I _beg_ your pardon?” He said, looking more bemused than anything.

Crowley licked his lips, and opened his eyes wider to better see the blush that was creeping up the angel’s neck. “Come ooooonnnn. I just wanna hear you say it, before I pop my clogs.”

“You don’t even wear clogs, my dear, just those ridiculous snakeskin boots. In any case, I shall have to decline.”

“It’s a figure of speech, angel, and - _oi_, you said you liked my boots!” He waggled a finger in the angel’s general direction, not quite being able to see him properly at the moment. His vision faded in and out at odd intervals and, hey, that wasn’t disturbing in the slightest, “Ssstop trying to change the subject. Just say it, say _fuck_, go on.”

“No,” said the angel.

“Go onnnnn.”

“_No_.”

“Angel. This is my last request. On my death bed. Even _you_ can’t refuse that.”

That was enough to finally make something _snap_. There was a sudden zap and crackle of divine anger.

_Oops, _thought Crowley, blanching rapidly,_ hadn’t meant to do that._

The demon came to the abrupt realisation that he might have gone a step too far. He quickly turned on his metaphorical snakeskin heel and scarpered back to safety, cowering a little as he did so for good measure.

“Oh, do _shut up_, for once, Crowley!” the angel cried, glowing around the edges with a righteous, heavenly fury, and Crowley could see him now, and he almost wished he couldn’t, because Aziraphale was more than angry, he looked scared. “I’m not exactly about to let you die!”

“Sssorry. Sorry, didn’t mean that.” Crowley placated quickly, not wanting to see the angel genuinely upset over the prospect of losing him. He didn’t think he could take that right now. Give him sarcastic, whiny, petulant Aziraphale over this any day.

“I should hope you didn’t mean it! You impossible creature!”

“Well,” mused Crowley, “I did mean the bit about the swearing.”

“_Crowley_,” said Aziraphale warningly.

“All right, all right.”

“Have a little faith in me, please, I meant what I said. I will not let you die.”

“Angel...” said Crowley, because it looked like Aziraphale was getting ideas, and that wouldn’t do, “Look, there’s nothing you can do about it. Just delaying the inev’table, at this point.”

And then he hacked out a great cough and dark blood spattered everywhere, quite dramatically really, if he did say so himself.

Aziraphale largely ruined the moment by dabbing daintily at the demon’s mouth with his own lacy handkerchief.

“Told you... I’m doooomed,” Crowley gasped out.

“Hardly,” said the angel.

“I _am_ though.”

“Hush. It’s rather hard to concentrate with you babbling inanely in the background.”

“_Babbling inanel_ -this is my last soliloquy, angel! The least you could do is bloody _listen_ to it.”

“Hmm. Well, it’ll hardly win any literary prizes my dear. It’s quite dreadful actually, very self-absorbed.”

The angel went back to his gentle ministrations. Crowley didn’t want to look. It was all a bit nasty looking down there. The water in the bowl had started off clear, then dabbled in pinkish orange, and now was completely red with globules of dark demonic essence swirling about in it.

That was probably bad. He hoped the angel hadn’t noticed.

“Angel,” whined the demon, trying to garner his attention, as Aziraphale gently unscrewed the top of a tube of antiseptic cream, as if that was going to do any bloody good, “Angel. _Angel_. Oi.”

A long suffering sigh. “What is it now, Crowley.” And he didn’t even bother to phrase it as a question, it was just an acknowledgment that the angel was still listening, thank you very much, but he didn’t much care for the demon’s interruption.

“Go on,” Crowley mumbled, undeterred, “say it. You know you want to.”

“If this is supposed to be a temptation, it’s proving a very poor one indeed. Not up to your usual standards at all. I’m rather disappointed in you.”

“Wait... wait - ar’you saying I’m usually good at tempting, angel?”

“No,” said Aziraphale, his cheeks a little pink. His deft fingers poked a little harder at the demon’s wound and Crowley couldn’t help the pained groan that escaped him. Christ, that hurt. He almost whited out for a second, coming back to the soft sound of Aziraphale’s voice, murmuring soothing nonsense.

“Mmfk,” he managed to croak.

“Sorry, my dear,” breathed the angel, having the good sense to look abashed.

The demon in Crowley, that is to say, all of him, sensed a rare opening in the angel’s armour and leapt at it. He pouted out his bottom lip, obviously, simperingly. “S’okay. I know how you can make it up to me.”

And there was the eye roll again. Victory. “Oh for _goodness’ sake_, Crowley. Have you no pride?”

“Pride’s a sin angel. S’naughty. Now go _on_. Say it. Just the once. For me?”

“I shall do no such thing.”

“Pleeeeease, angel,” he croaked, wobbling his lip, just so.

“Your cunning wiles won’t work on me, oh vile and most wicked of creatures!” Aziraphale insisted with an affronted scoff. But then almost immediately after, he offered up an eye-crinklingly pleased smile. “Oh, all right, very well, then,” conceded the angel, with a gleam in his eye, “but I refuse to say it until you’re quite literally in the throws of your last death rattle, my dear.”

Crowley hissed with glee, and then suddenly frowned. “Oi, wait a minute angel, that’s not fair.”

“Oh?”

“You just want to upstage me, don’t you? Is that your plan? Thwarting my wiles until the bitter end, is it? I’ll be here, taking my very last breath, and then you’ll finally say fuck, and all the attention will be on you!”

“Yes, that’s obviously been my intention all along,” agreed the angel, with an amused purse of his lips, “I wish to steal your limelight. Oh drat, you’ve rather found me out, my dear. I feel very foolish indeed for having attempted to swindle the mighty serpent himself. Now, do be quiet.”

“_Knew it_,’ Crowley gasped, as the angel gently dabbed blobs of white, foul smelling cream about the place, with his pink tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth in deep concentration, “knew it all along. Knew you were evil.”

“Sshh.” hushed the angel.

“_Sssssshhhh_,” mimicked the demon, hissing out his own forked tongue for good measure, “ow ow ow, ahhhh - nuh _nggggghhhhh_... you’re enjoying this, aren’t you...? You get a sick sense of enjoyment at seeing my pain, don’t you... angel.. you sadistic... bastard...”

“Hush. I’ll not tell you again.”

Crowley fixed narrowed eyes on the angel, but he couldn’t be certain that he’d done the narrowing himself or whether his eyelids were closing all of their own accord.

“Crowley,” admonished the angel, “you mustn’t sleep. Not now.”

“Mffgh. Not ssssleepin’ angel, nufk, nope, not me.”

“Of course, my dear, but still, it would please me immensely if you could bother to keep your eyes open.”

“They _are_ open, sssssso open...”

“No, my dear, I’m afraid they’re not.” A gentle hand cupped his cheek and he dutifully opened his sluggish, achingly tired eyes to look at the angel. “There you are,” Aziraphale greeted him, with a soft smile, “hello.”

“Hi,” said Crowley.

“You’re very beautiful, you know.”

Well, Crowley couldn’t have heard that right. Must be pretty far gone by now, maybe his ears had stopped working. He waggled a pinky finger into one of them and tried again. “You wot?”

“Your eyes, darling, they’re beautiful.”

Crowley didn’t know whether that was the angel’s intention, but he felt quite a bit more alert now. “Really?” He wheezed out. Giving the angel the chance to take it back.

But the angel didn’t.

“Of course,” said Aziraphale, emphatically, “I’ve always thought so.”

This was uncharted territory. If Crowley had been able to move without collapsing in agony he surely would have bolted for the door. “Well,” he found himself saying, swallowing convulsively, “well, you’ve never _said_ so. You’ve never told me that before.”

“Have I not?” mused the angel, “Well, I believe I always meant to, perhaps the right moment just never presented itself. An oversight on my part, perhaps. And one that you’ll simply have to forgive me for. It’s hardly something I could bring up in polite conversation.”

Crowley let out a snigger that gurgled horribly at the end, and suddenly there was more blood in his mouth. The angel patiently pressed his handkerchief to Crowley’s lips again, as gentle as can be, and the demon hadn’t the energy to move away from the careful touch.

“Our conversssations are nev’r _polite_, angel,” he told the angel, breathlessly, “How _dare_ you... inssssinuate...” he ran out of air there at the end and just let the sentence dangle, just like his hand suddenly did, over the edge of the sofa arm, when the demon couldn’t find the energy to hold it up anymore.

The angel caught them, both the tail end of the floundering sentence, and Crowley’s limp, unresponsive fingers, and he held them close. “Do forgive me,” Aziraphale whispered, and it almost seemed as though he were speaking of something else entirely.

Well, whatever it was, it hardly mattered anymore.

Crowley would forgive him anyway.

“Mffgh... S’all right... if, uh... you’ve got any other things that you’ve thought about, but never told me? Well... now’s the perf’ct opp’rtunity...”

Crowley, despite being a demon, had always dared to hope. And Crowley, _because_ he was a demon, had always dared to ask. That was his weakness, wasn’t it? Asking questions he probably didn’t want to hear the answer to. Why should he stop now, just because he was dying?

The angel indulged him, “I suppose it is, isn’t it? I must confess that over the years, there have been many thoughts that have gone unsaid between us. I’m... I’m afraid they don’t translate well into words.”

Crowley stuck out his bloody tongue. “Y’re not gonna hit me, ar’you angel? S’not fair. I’m an invalid.”

A small smile. “No, my dear. But might I try something else, instead?”

“S’pose. Yeah. Whatev’r you want, angel.”

The angel’s eyes were bright. He leaned over and pressed his warm lips, chastely, against Crowley’s.

It was, well, it was bloody amazing, is what it was.

Crowley thought his boots might pop off and hit the ceiling. Just pop right off like little snakeskin rockets. Poof. Gone. Up into the stratosphere. Which was really saying something, because he wasn’t sure that his boots were actually boots at all, or whether they were instead just extensions of his own occult being.

So, really, it was some bloody kiss.

“Mmm,” he managed to murmur, completely and hopelessly amazed by the sudden turn of events, completely and hopelessly _besotted_, “s’nice...”

Nice.

_Nice_?

Fuck.

He couldn’t conjure up anything better than _nice_?! His angel had just kissed him, Aziraphale had bloody _kissed him_ \- this was more than he’d ever hoped for in his whole pathetic damned existence and - and he’d said it was _nice_. Ssssatan rip out his fucking spleen. _Nice_.

“S’_very_ nice.” Crowley amended, and bless it all, that wasn’t enough either, but it would have to do.

“Is it?” breathed the angel, against his lips, “Oh good.”

Crowley blearily looked him in the eye, a small frown creasing his forehead, and a sudden fear bubbling away in his hole of a stomach, “You don’ think ssso?”

Aziraphale appeared as though he were glowing. “I do, my dear, very much. I’ve wanted to kiss you for a very long time.”

Crowley thought he might just be glowing too.

“Really?” he breathed, incredulously, “Well, tha’ss good. Wahoo... wah-_bloody_-hoooo... hehe... ‘nother one for the road?”

Crowley couldn’t stop himself from grinning. It was an old, soppy, crooked grin, one that he might’ve been ashamed to see on his own face, but his angel didn’t smile back. Aziraphale looked... he looked desperate.

“Anything,” said Aziraphale, and kissed him again.

Crowley opened his mouth a little under the angel’s soft lips. Because he was a demon, all right? And he wanted to know what Aziraphale tasted like. If these were to be his final moments, he just wanted to know what the angel tasted like. Please. 

And he knew that he himself must have tasted of blood. He knew that he must have tasted like darkness and death and really not very nice things, but Aziraphale kissed him anyway. And it was wet and soft and careful.

Aziraphale tasted just like he smelled. So bloody _good_ that it _hurt_.

Crowley breathed him in, he devoured him, and he was so taken in by the fulfilment of six thousand years of pining that he didn’t realise what was actually happening.

It was almost as if the angel was breathing something into his soul, something deliciously warm and sweet and golden, like he was pouring honey right into his being. It filled Crowley up to his very toes with sizzling light.

Fuck, that was... that was something else. He’d never felt so good.

It was all getting a bit fuzzy, now that Crowley thought about it, and his lips tingled in the most pleasant way. If he didn’t know any better he’d say there was something nefarious going on, his angel was much too willing - much too - mfk, but those kisssssesss, what was he even saying - who the fuck cared, he most certainly didn’t - more kisses, that’s - yes, more of that please. _Ohhhh._ Angel. That was nice. That was more than nice.

He felt positively heavenly, actually. Well, no, not heavenly, if Heaven had been like this he never would’ve sauntered off in the vague direction of the fire exit.

Crowley didn’t feel any pain anymore, which should have alarmed him, but for some reason didn’t. Nothing could be wrong when he was this incredibly warm and comfortable. There was a buzzing under his skin, a warm tickling sensation, as if he were skirting on the edges of sleep, wrapped in a big fluffy blanket by the fire.

Maybe it was all that honey that the angel was pouring into him, maybe he was attracting bees. That made sense, right..?

“Mmm,” he snuggled up, burying his nose in the angel’s impossibly soft skin between his neck and his shoulder.

The angel’s voice was a gentle rumble in his chest, “Feeling better?”

He really was. It was strange, because he’d been feeling awful before, and now he was... he was so... mmm... he was so content that he didn’t want to question it, he didn’t want to ever stop feeling this way. He’d be happy to lie like this, in his angel’s arms, luxuriating in nectar, for the rest of eternity.

“S’all tingly...” Crowley slurred out, “feelsss good...”

The angel giggled then, a lovely, joyful thing, that spilled out somewhere above Crowley’s head and caused Aziraphale’s body to wiggle along with it, and Hell, if he wasn’t head over heels for the angel by now, that would have surely done it.

“I’m so very glad to hear it. Why don’t you rest for a spell? This will all seem much better in the morning.”

Would it? Huh. He thought he was supposed to keep his eyes open. That’s what his angel had said before, when he’d looked all pouty and misty eyed. Crowley didn’t want to make him sad. That’s why he hadn’t wanted to come here in the first bloody place. He opened heavy lidded, sticky eyes to look at Aziraphale, unaware that they had closed in the first place.

The angel‘s head was nodding forward, as if he felt the pull of sleep himself. And his own eyelids were drifting close over drowsy blue irises. 

There was something decidedly off about that, Crowley thought.

Something iffy...

Something...

“You’all right, angel?” He slurred, suddenly concerned.

Aziraphale treated him to a soft smile, but didn’t open his eyes, “Perfectly. Now go to sleep, Crowley. Off you pop.”

Crowley wanted to keep feeling like this, exactly like this, for as long as he could. Going to sleep could well mess everything up. “Nah...” he murmured, muzzily, “Don’t wanna sssleep, angel... w’f’i don’ wake up...?”

There was the softest brush of lips on the crown of his head, and the feeling of heavy arms settling around him. “You will, my darling. I’ll make sure of it... Just rest now.”

So Crowley did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you're enjoying this series so far, and whether you would like me to continue!  
Thank you so much for reading! Comments and kudos make me smile :)


	3. In which it all works out all right in the end

Crowley woke languorously, as a demon who is sometimes also a snake is wont to do, wiggling contentedly and nuzzling his nose into something soft and velvety. As he squinted open his yellow eyes, pupils blown wide with a sudden rush of unexpected affection, he realised that it was the angel’s waistcoat that he had his nose currently wedged into.

Huh, so that’s what that felt like. He had always wondered.

Wait...

There were arms around him, strong arms that wore a familiar shirt with cuffs that had been turned up neatly to the elbow, revealing soft angelic skin dusted with tiny golden hairs, and oh look, there were was a hand too. A wide set palm that was pressed against Crowley’s side, with manicured fingertips curled slightly in the fabric of Crowley’s own shirt.

All of this was achingly familiar, and Crowley’s sleep addled brain whirred audibly as he tried to think just why that would be... all of these things added up to something, someone, very familiar indeed.

Wait...

Wait.

WOT.

Crowley bolted upright in alarm.

If he wasn’t part snake, he might have given himself whiplash with the force of his sudden, and almost literal, jumping out of his skin that had just occurred. Let the angel be thankful that Crowley wasn’t currently in his snake form, or Aziraphale might have been left holding one of his recently vacated sheds like it was a teddy bear.

The demon looked upon the angel with something akin to awe. All right, it probably was awe, actually. No one had ever had the audacity to cuddle him before. And besides which, when he’d fallen asleep, he hadn’t thought that he was ever going to wake up again.

Oh yeah, that was right. The haze of his thoughts started to grow clearer now, as the muzziness of sleep lifted and the memories of the previous night trickled into his brain.

Aziraphale -

Aziraphale had -

Aziraphale had _kissed_ him. They’d kissed. They’d _kissed_, hadn’t they? Oh _fuck_, they’d kissed. That was good, that was amazing, holy shit, they’d bloody kissed -

And seemingly fallen asleep in each other’s arms, like a bloody romance novel. Crowley felt an absurdly large smile balloon out over his face at the thought, and he let out a breathy laugh. This was perfect, beautiful, he wanted to snuggle back down with the sleeping angel, bury his nose right into Aziraphale’s neck, right next to that silly old bow tie, and breathe in his scent. Hell, maybe he’d even kiss him awake, and say _‘bout bloody time eh? Took us long enough_, and Aziraphale would look at him longingly, like he always did, only this time they’d do something about it, and -

And something was _wrong_.

Crowley’s gaze skittered anxiously over the still form on the sofa, who hadn’t yet moved, despite Crowley sitting up so sharply. 

Oh, fuck. Something was wrong, wasn’t it? The angel didn’t sleep. Had never slept, not once, not to his knowledge, not in six thousand years.

In fact, Aziraphale took great pride in reminding Crowley of that fact. Usually at ungodly hours of the morning, when he’d insisted on popping round to the flat to ask about something obscure, like if Crowley remembered that time in Mesopotamia when they had those stuffed dates, because he had been thinking that they would go rather nicely with a sweet wine he had picked up recently, but oh dear, he was being dreadfully rude wasn’t he, whoopsidaisy, he had quite forgotten the time, being an ethereal being who would never taint themselves with the sins of the sloth, and oh well, it really couldn’t be helped as he was here now, and it was rather silly of him to come all the way over to Mayfair in the rain without coming inside, wasn’t it, and would Crowley be a dear and put the kettle on because he was inviting himself in, perhaps the earl grey, yes, thank you, most kind.

But Aziraphale was sleeping now. Or at least, he wasn’t moving. Or breathing. And his eyes were closed. Crowley had the sudden urge to put a hand on him, on the angel’s cheek, on the angel’s curled fingers, just to check if he was - if he was -

The angel was cold.

And now that he was looking - now that Crowley was actually _looking_, it was obvious.

The pleasing warmth that had curled in his belly all but evaporated, replaced with sheer, unadulterated dread, and the first stirrings of unbridled panic.

Gone was the delicious swollen red from those lips that had kissed him, oh so gently, just hours before, and the angel’s delicate, English Rose complexion had all but sallowed into something grey and sickly. The tip of the angel’s upturned nose was usually rosy with indignation at something Crowley had poked fun at, his cheeks usually blushed pink with concealed amusement - but now it was as if all of the colour, all of the life, had been leeched out of him, leaving something muted and dim in its wake. 

And God, he still wasn’t moving. He wasn’t responding to Crowley’s panicky touches at all.

“Angel?” The demon dared to breathe.

Not a peep.

Didn’t even stir.

Just lay there, looking... looking dead.

Crowley suddenly remembered the fact that _he_ should probably be dead too, and looked downwards at himself, because even his stupid angel wouldn’t have been so stupid as to do such a stupid - _stupid_ -

His hands frantically felt at his stomach, but the skin there was unbroken, unmarred, as if there had never been a great big hole there at all.

“Oh angel, no,” he whispered, suddenly terrified, “no no no, what have you done?” He clutched at Aziraphale then, “Wake up,” He pleaded, “Angel? Wake up. Aziraphale, don’t do this...”

Crowley might have pulled out some of the velvet fluff from the angel’s waistcoat, but really, it was the idiot’s own bloody fault, because how dare he even think about doing this.

Under the demon’s clawed fists, a few off Aziraphale’s waistcoat buttons finally gave up the ghost and were wrenched free, pinging off across the floorboards. Crowley shook him hard, until the angel’s curly blonde head lolled about like a badly stuffed cuddly toy.

“Fuck! Oh, fuck, ohhhhh you total - you absolute - _tit_!” He growled out, “Wake up! Wake up and tell me you didn’t just fucking do this to me, angel! Angel!”

Anything, he’d take anything. An eye roll, a huff of annoyed breath, a tut, an _oh Crowley, you’re always so hopelessly melodramatic. _

Anything.

”Angel, _please_.”

And then he stopped. His hands started to shake, and instead of clawing desperately at the angel’s clothes, Crowley’s fingers started to smooth over the damaged fabric, with an almost painful reverence. And he stared and stared, until his vision blurred and warped, and he had to scrub at his eyes to stop it. Just stop.

How could have been so stupid? He should have known that Aziraphale would do something like this, Hell, he _had _known and that’s why he hadn’t wanted to bloody come here. And yeah, the pain had gone a long way in distracting him, a big bloody hole where there shouldn’t be one can do that to a demon, fair dos, but he still should have remembered just how bloody stubborn Aziraphale could be when he put his mind to it.

The angel had only gone and tricked him, hadn’t he? The stupid - stupid...

The bloody original tempter himself had been tricked by a completely hapless angel who couldn’t even do a magic trick without a few dozen playing cards accidentally falling out of his frilly sleeve to fan across the floor, a coin tinkling to the ground with a _whoopsie, silly me_, and a poor dove suffocating to death inside the breast pocket of his frock coat. Christ. It would have been embarrassing, if it wasn’t so bloody awful. Crowley had been thwarted, powerless to resist, rendered completely and utterly helpless by his manipulative bastard of an angel and a couple of tender kisses.

Oh, the angel was clever, Crowley had forgotten just how clever he was.

And fuck, Crowley loved him. So fiercely that it physically burned.

He was going to absolutely murder him when he woke up.

If he...

Crowley laid a heavy grieving head atop the angel’s chest, burying his wet nose, and fisting his hands into the sleeves of the angel’s shirt. His howls were muffled into the fabric of the ruined waistcoat.

The angel had saved Crowley, just like he said he would. At the expense of himself.

_Aziraphale..._

Crowley would have done the same thing. It hurt to think it, but it was true. If it had been Aziraphale who had stumbled into his flat, hurt and dying and lamenting the state of his coat and apologising profusely for putting the demon out like this. Crowley probably would have done something stupid too. Because bless it all, Crowley loved him. He loved the sodding angel, and it looked like the sodding angel loved him back. And really, the demon should have been ecstatic about that, he would have been so so happy, if the stupid bloody idiot hadn’t gone and ruined everything...

Well. That is. He _thought_ Aziraphale loved him back. Either that, or the idiot just had no sense of self-preservation at all, and made a habit of pouring out his life force into every pathetic injured creature who showed up on his doorstep...

_You stupid angel._

In the end, could Crowley really blame Aziraphale for doing this? Could he really blame the angel for saving him, when Crowley would do the same should their situations be reversed?

Well, yeah. Abso-bloody-lutely. Of course he bloody could. Sod the stupid angel and his stupid sodding face!

Nggh. _No_, he didn’t mean that.

Yes, he did.

God - Sssatan - Someone - Fuck! This was _awful_.

Crowley lifted his head hopefully, wondering if the angel had sensed his abject misery and decided to rejoin the land of the living. He did that sometimes, came to find Crowley when he was in need of comfort. Just popped round to see how Crowley was when he was in one of his snits, never asking what was wrong but offering wine and grumbling about overzealous customers until Crowley calmed. Aziraphale would just sit near by and do nothing, and somehow it was still everything.

But no, not this time, of course the angel hadn’t even deigned to open a bruised eyelid. Hadn’t even wrinkled his nose. Might never do that again.

He was still cold, as Crowley felt when he touched a warm palm to the angel’s cheek with such tenderness, such care, that he was almost glad the angel wasn’t awake to tease him about it.

Aziraphale was cold. That wouldn’t do, would it? Crowley could at least try and warm his body back up, just in case the angel felt like inhabiting it again any time soon. The demon miracled up a ludicrously fluffy blanket, tucking it snugly over Aziraphale’s limp body, and a squishy cushion found its way under the angel’s white curls. He lit a fire in the grate with a snap of his fingers.

Then he sat on the floor next to his angel and laid his head on the blanket, gazing at Aziraphale’s stupid pale face and willing the idiot to _wake up _because Crowley was thinking about dangerous things that the angel wouldn’t like, and if he didn’t open his eyes soon, then Crowley was going to follow through with all of them.

“Angel,” he breathed, unable to keep the wobble from his voice. “I... I just... I just let some sticky-fingered toddlers into your bookshop.”

The air was so still, calm and quiet. It settled over the angel and demon like the mantle of night.

“I did. And I gave them a pair of scissors and - and some melting ice creams to run around with. Told ‘em to just... go nuts. Just be glad you aren’t awake to see it, angel, it’d probably kill you.”

The only sound was the fire crackling in its grate. It cast a golden, flickering light over the floor and sofa.

“I dogeared all of your first editions, too,” continued the demon, solemnly, “Every single one. And we’re talking _multiple pages_ here, angel, I just - I thought, _well_, you weren’t gonna do anything with them, you know, ‘cause you've up and left me, so I might as well put them to good use. And so I... I just went and folded all the corners right over into little triangles. Not even neatly. Not even consistently. Think I might have ripped a page, actually. Just, whoops - little rip. Little tear. Barely noticeable.”

It was warmer now, the fire chasing away the chill. The demon sniffed.

“‘Course, that was before I spilt my coffee all over your beloved Wilde.”

There was a small, infinitesimal, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, _groan_.

Crowley shot up so quickly he nearly dislocated his spine. He slapped two hands onto the angel’s cheeks, and was rewarded with another soft groan. This one, similarly affronted, and oh so bloody _amazing_ to hear.

“Angel!” He crowed.

A crack of weary blue eyes, a pink tongue darting out to moisten dry lips. Another, glorious, grumbling moan. Crowley never heard anything so painfully wonderful in his entire life. 

“Oh, thank _fuck_!” He yelled, “THANK _FUCK_! Thank fuckety fuck fuck!”

“Language...” came the mumble.

Crowley could have whooped with joy, “Angel! You’re not dead!”

“Mmm...”

“You’re not dead! You’re alive! Thank fuck - and ohhhh, angel, I’m going to _kill you_! I’m going to _fucking strangle you! I’m going to murder you!_”

“Oh,” came the soft puff of breath, along with the tiniest wrinkle of the angel’s brow, “if you must... would you mind terribly... being a bit quieter about it?”

“FFfff?!”

Aziraphale opened both eyes a fraction wider, the irises grey and weary, and a finger pressed against his lips in firm reprimand, “Sshh...” He hushed, quite forcibly.

Crowley was caught somewhere between pure elation, shocked relief, and utter fury.

”You - angel, you did _not_ just _shhh_ me! After the fucking stunt you just pulled - YOU BETTER NOT HAVE FUCKING _SSHHHED ME!_”

”Sh.” 

“ANGEL -”

“Oh Crowley, _please_, do try to keep it down...”

“KEEP IT -” the demon dropped the volume to a dangerous, volatile hiss when he saw the pinched pain in the Aziraphale’s face, as if the angel were suffering a particularly bad hangover he’d forgotten to miracle away. But Crowley didn’t keep the anger from colouring his words like a sharp pencil scribbling so hard and furiously that it tore the paper into bits, “Keep it _down_?! _Keep it down_?!”

Aziraphale attempted to roll over, away from the spitting demon, to face the back of the sofa, curling the blanket around him as he did so.

Crowley was having none if it. “Oh no, no you bloody don’t! What the holy Heaven were you _thinking_?!”

“I was thinking,” said Aziraphale, grumpily, and with a voice so husky that it sent little tingles up and down Crowley’s spine, “that I didn’t much fancy... the love of my life.... dying in my bookshop.”

“Love,” breathed the demon, stuck like a skipping record, “love of your - _love of your_ -”

“Yes. And I’ll thank you not to keep going on about it. Good day,” and with that the angel turned onto his side, snuggling into the blanket with his eyes closed.

“Angel, you - you _idiot_, you could have killed yourself.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale mumbled, sleepily, “I told you I knew perfectly well what I was doing. Now come here.”

“No, I’m - wot? I’m not - _no_ angel, not until you - you _explain_ yourself - not until you _apologise_!”

“I want a cuddle.”

“Angel -”

Aziraphale levered himself partially upright, with the help of an elbow wedged against the sofa cushions. “Do you remember, my dear, when I told that you were quite the most ungrateful creature I had ever met, and you had the audacity to disagree with me? Well, this is _exactly_ the sort of thing I was talking about. I just saved your life, and I would very much appreciate a cuddle, now _come here_.”

The angel was way too articulate for looking so adorably sleep-mussed.

He was way too articulate for having looked at death’s door a few minutes ago.

But there was the hint of pink in his cheeks now, and a blob of it on the tip of his nose.

Crowley hissed and scorned for all of three seconds before complying to the angel’s wishes, because he wanted to, of course he bloody did. Maybe he’d died and this was the afterlife and what a lucky creature he was. He slithered right next to the angel, and Aziraphale lifted the blanket to accommodate him, and they were - they were cuddling, that’s what they were doing.

Angel and demon stared at each other for a few moments, faces inches apart.

It should have been awkward, and it was, a bit. 

“Oh, Crowley, you’re all elbows and knees,” grumbled the angel.

“Yeah, well you’re...” the comfiest thing he’d ever felt in his life, the softest, loveliest fucking thing, “Cold,” he ended with a huff of annoyed breath. And they both wiggled a bit to accommodate one another.

“Then by all means,” murmured Aziraphale, with heavy lidded eyes, “warm me, my dear.” 

Crowley wrapped his arms around the angel, and he was careful about it, more careful than he’d ever been with anything else in his entire life. He cleared his throat, wondering if he could get away with snogging the angel’s face off, but then remembering that he needed a few things to be cleared up first. “You’re not going to...? You’re uh - you’re all right now, angel?”

“I am in no danger of snuffing it anytime soon, if that’s what you mean.”

“Right. Okay. Yeah... Good.” He cleared his throat, “Promise?”

“I promise.”

”S’just.. you tricked me before, angel. And I’ll get you for that later, I will, but... you don’t look well. And you’re cold. And I’m not worried, but I might be, actually.”

”Crowley,” breathed the angel, voice overflowing with fondness, “I assure you, I’ll be right as rain in a few hours or so, I merely need to, ah, _recharge_, as it were. There’s life in this old angel yet.”

They shifted a little, getting more comfortable. A press of chests against each other, an elbow shifting, legs tangling. Crowley breathed him in and held him as tightly as he dared. “Why’d you do it, angel?” 

Aziraphale had his cold face pressed to Crowley’s jaw, and spoke into his skin. “Oh my darling, you must know the answer to that already.”

“Yeah. Yeah, ‘course I do, but uh... say it, anyway? Just in case?”

”All right.” The angel pulled back a little, to look into Crowley’s eyes. A soft smile curved at his lips, and his eyes were shining. “I’m really quite smitten with you, my dear. I’m afraid it’s quite serious. I do believe I’m hopelessly in love.”

“Oh,” said Crowley, all of his breath suddenly whooshing out of him, “that’s embarrassing.”

Aziraphale giggled, and it was the best sound Crowley had ever heard. He wanted to swallow it. “Don’t _tease_. I’m feeling quite fragile.”

“Well. I’m not saying it back,” Crowley informed him, quite petulantly, “Consider that punishment for nearly giving me an aneurysm. So there.”

"My dear, you’re saying it right now,” said Aziraphale, “just as if you’ve said it every day for the past few thousand years. Did you think I hadn’t been listening?”

“Am not.” He groused, “Shut up. Shut it, angel, you shut it right now.”

Aziraphale’s cool hand was running up and down his spine, achingly gentle. “Well, this is lovely,” he whispered, “Holding you.”

Crowley thought it was the very best thing that had ever happened. “S’not too bad,” he huffed. One of his own hands was loosely fisted on the angel’s front. He looked at it for a moment, then mumbled, “Sorry about your waistcoat. Thought you were dead.”

“My waistcoa - oh Crowley!” 

“Nyeh. Take it up with past me. He was a bit mad for a second there.”

“Well. You may attempt fix it in the morning,” murmured Aziraphale, and tugged him closer. “And there was no need to be worried. I knew it would work.”

“You did _not_.”

“I did. I had the utmost faith in us.”

“Pfff. I don’t even know what you _did_, angel, it’s like we were all - all _mingled_ together for a second there. Real frowned upon stuff. Kinda filthy, actually.” He waggled his eyebrows, “Thought that sorta thing was s’posed to make us explode.”

“Hmm.. I’m sure it would have, if we were anyone else. Luckily, we have something that other angels and demons lack.”

”Luckily...”

They just held each other.

Crowley couldn’t help it, he whispered, “You sure you’re all right?” Because losing his angel, even if only for a while, had shaken him to the core. He just needed to make sure.

Aziraphale’s hand was rubbing at his back in slow, soothing circles. “Well, now that you mention it...”

”Angel?”

”I am a little cold.” Crowley huddled closer until their noses just touched. “Perhaps a few kisses would help put me to rights? Angels are beings of _love_ you know, and I seem to have rather carelessly given mine away... so... if you’d care to oblige?”

Crowley felt all the breath go out of him at once, in a sort of high pitched elongated whimper that gently buoyed some loose curls from Aziraphale’s brow.

Yes, he’d oblige. Oh, he’d _oblige_, all right.

“Oh dear, I’m feeling rather faint,” mewled Aziraphale, swooning backwards with a bright giggle that brought a well needed rush of colour to his cheeks, he pressed the back of a pale hand to his forehead, “You best hurry. I fear I may not be long for this world!”

Oh he was such - such a _bastard_.

“Don’t _push it_, angel.”

Crowley kissed him anyway, not that the angel deserved it. He pressed their lips together softly, gently, because he didn’t trust himself not to just unhinge his jaw and swallow the angel whole, and then - then he kissed the angel again, not softly, not gently at all, because sod it, sod everything, this was bliss, this was - and for some reason, the angel was giggling in delighted surprise against Crowley’s mouth, into his mouth, and kissing him back, and that was Aziraphale’s tongue, that was his tongue right there, in Crowley’s mouth, and Crowley wanted to bite it, then soothe it with his own, and so he did, and was that normal? None of this was normal - and the angel was sucking on his bottom lip, and nibbling on it, as if it were a cherry on a Belgian bun, and ohhh the sounds the angel was making, like he enjoyed this, like he wanted this, nothing but this, and Crowley was so utterly... fucked.

After a few minutes of sordid kissing - or it might have been hours, time was an earthly construct and Crowley was elsewhere at the moment, floating languidly on some bizarre love-addled celestial plane - it became clear that Aziraphale was still exhausted.

His plump, wet lips were growing slack against Crowley’s, and his little gleeful sounds became quieter and breathier, until they tapered off entirely. Crowley indulged in cutting the angel off, before the angel could do the same to him, wiggling around with a huff until his back was to the angel, and becoming one with the concept of the little spoon.

The angel wrapped an arm around Crowley’s middle and sighed happily into the demon’s neck. It took all of Crowley’s willpower not to wiggle his arse into the angel’s crotch.

On second thoughts, what the hell, he was a demon.

He wiggled his arse into the angel’s crotch. A sleepy kiss pressed against the sensitive skin of Crowley’s neck was his reward, and he felt quite happy about it thank you very much.

Aziraphale fell back asleep soon after that. But he was warmer now, and breathing, so Crowley wasn’t too worried, well, just a smidge.

For someone who’d never slept before, the angel seemed to slip into it with ease, like a boat pushed out onto a calm lake.

Crowley lingered on the shore, unwilling to follow just yet. He was quite busy having a small, well needed, and rather delayed, panic attack.

_So, let’s get this straight,_ he thought dizzily.

Not dead. Not dying. Angel kisses.

Right.

Angel not dead. Not dying. More angel kisses.

Okay.

Good. That was good. Great, even. He might even explode with happiness, actually, because honestly, this was the best day of his life and he’d just been snogged senseless by his stupidly heroic, impossibly wonderful, bastard of an angel. Probably a good idea to sleep on it, though. Hell, he was already lying down, being cuddled by the angel who’d done the snogging, so yeah, why the buggering hell not.

He could get used to this. In fact, he very much planned on getting used to this.

The angel’s breath whuffled through the hair on the nape of Crowley’s neck, and his firm, soft weight pressed against the demon’s back. Crowley had never felt safer in his life. Aziraphale had one slowly warming hand tucked against the demon’s belly, and how was the demon supposed to sort through his scattered thoughts, his skittering emotions, when the angel was doing something like that. Just look at that, look at it.

Well, Crowley had been right about one thing.

He really was so very _fucked._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed this story, please let me know if you did! And if you’re still up for reading more stories in this series :)  
Comments and kudos always appreciated!


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